


leave me a bullet

by kurlykmurlyk



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, How Do I Tag, M/M, Sad and Beautiful, idk in what person im writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:28:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurlykmurlyk/pseuds/kurlykmurlyk
Summary: Why does Will Graham believe in fairy tales? Stop. Leave me a little place there. Leave me a bullet.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	leave me a bullet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ironccap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironccap/gifts).



> my first hannigram actually so)))

Tell me, how does that feel.

How does thatfeel, to stand under the rays of the scorching sun, how does that feel, to catch his heavy kisses, roll them between the fingers and down the palm, as they quietly tickle the wrist, leave red scratches in a whisper, leave a tremble of eyelashes on dry skin, on bitten lips, on soundless sighs, on a muddy tile with a bouquet of bloody splashes; to hear his tears that flow down _slowly viscously timidly_ , as if you cannot kiss, as if you can not cry, as if you can no longer fall in love.

Tell me, how does that feel, to believe in fairy tales.

Tell me, how does that feel to brew some bitter coffee in a cezve, clap your sticky eyelashes in front of a mirror splattered with _white dry dirty_ stains, shrink from mint toothpaste, a freaking cold one, fall asleep under the creak of the wind, dull barking of a dog, curse the running news through the same channels, lazily go through empty papers, _swallow pills one two three four five-_

Tell me what it is like to believe in fairy tales, read fairy tales, hope for eternal love at night, when the arrows don't tick, when the fridge hums quietly from the kitchen, when instead of aesthetics you see only your crooked fingers through the thick cigarette smoke, and tomorrow reproach yourself for taking the last one from the stash, because you _don't_ smoke, right?;

The moon is just a big white circle for you, the same as a stain on your crooked reflection, when-

Do you believe in fairy tales?

Then tell me why your head is buzzing, why your ribs are cracking, why is a swarm of wild bees is stuck somewhere in your throat- it itches, whirs, rustles, crumbles in sharp shivers that leave pink slobbery kisses of pity on the skin, _crumbles in hot sand, which smells so nice of the sea, that melts in tears, that laughs in milk strawberries on your tongue_ , why doesn't the night shine in your eyes, why doesn't the Sun smile at you?

You think that you have lost the Sun long ago, but you have never found it.

_Do you want me to kill the Sun for you? Or do you want to kill it yourself?_

The ringing of human bones, their bitter crunch, their creak, their howl - you hear it every day, it plays under the subcortex of your skull like a boring soundtrack, like you're in a sugary TV show, like no one is watching you, like no one is looking at you. They don’t clap. You have long ceased to like other people's scared eyes, because they look at you from the mirror, become silent and again hide under heavy eyelids. They don’t clap.

Then tell me why do you still believe in fairy tales?

Why does Will Graham believe in fairy tales?

Maybe because when he stands in tight blood gloves that burn the skin, that wrap the fingers, that almost crackle on the palm of his hand when he shines with new black shoes in a bitter sole from broken screams, wheeze, from the sound of heavy hooves, when his name is crumbling in his own hands, when he breathes in a dash, when his lungs hiss with salt, when his throat is wrapped in a yellow ribbon, when-

when it's too loud, when the silence rings too much, only then does his black and white days take on a red tint.

Maybe because he realized that he could write fairy tales himself.

_Write me a poem. Write me a poem with gunpowder and blood._

Maybe because no one is looking at him, not even from the fucking mirror. Maybe because no one wants to kiss his broken hands, maybe because no one sees themselves reflected in his black eyes, maybe because he has no choice but to steal them. _Are you a thief or a poet, Will Graham?_

Maybe when your hands are shaking, when anger buzzes in your elbows, bones, on your tongue, gets under your nails in cheap dust, when anger is also afraid to be forgotten, when - when you envy anger, hatred, like a nameless celebrity on a popular channel, about which tomorrow you will forget, like abeautiful candy that glitters through a huge bright showcase, maybe-

Maybe, when there is nowhere else to go down, when you have reached the bottom of hell itself, all is left is to break it like a fragile glass.

_Maybe because other people's thoughts sound tastier, maybe when you kiss me loudly, panting, not smiling, maybe I'm in love with your tears, maybe, I think I'm in love with your tears and your cry that sticks to the finger, sleeves of the same sticky red shirt yet completely new which has not yet had time to break smile has not yet had time to smile enough so that you feel sick from the lips in the mirror from the lips on the skin, it seems that I am in love with your trembling eyelashes, your eyes grieving for yourself, you know, you know that a little bit more and-_

Tell me, how does that feel.

How does thatfeel, to stand under the rays of the scorching sun, how does that feel, to catch his heavy kisses, roll them between the fingers and down the palm, as they quietly tickle the wrist, leave red scratches in a whisper, leave a tremble of eyelashes on dry skin, on bitten lips, on soundless sighs, on a muddy tile with a bouquet of bloody splashes; to hear his tears that flow down _slowly viscously timidly_ , as if you cannot kiss, as if you can not cry, as if you can no longer fall in love.

_Tell me how does it feel when they paint you a smile, with a felt-tip pen on your skin, a knife across your heart, tell me what it is like when you choke on your pride, that falls with a crash, squeal, whistle, what is it like to sleep with a gun under your pillow and one the only bullet there - for yourself? Or for someone else. But you don't like to share._

_And horns will grow from the blood behind your broken skull._

_Why does Will Graham believe in fairy tales?_ Why does Will Graham look into my eyes, when his lips are dry, when his eyes are dry, when his fingers are not stained with burgundy paint, when you are not an artist, _I still feel like your best painting._

Why does Will Graham believe in fairy tales? Stop. Leave me a little place there. Leave me a bullet.


End file.
